Footprints and songlines

'I have a vision of the Songlines stretching across the continents and ages; that wherever men have trodden they have left a trail of song; and that these trails must reach back, in time and space, to an isolated pocket in the African savannah, where the First Man shouted the opening stanza to the World Song, "I am!"'  - Bruce Chatwin

The songlines, as Bruce Chatwin describes them in his book, are the pathways trodden by the ancestors in ancient Australia. They represent the perimeters of land navigated by different tribes as well as being a means of passing dreamtime stories to the younger generations to explain the existence of certain mountains and rivers and to give colour to the history of those lands and journeys. It is possible to recognise exactly where a person is from in Australia by the song they sing. Inflections within the song represent mountains or rivers.

Bruce Chatwin is an English man who travels through the Australian outback seeing connections between Aboriginal dreamtime songs and stories and his own thesis about song as the origin of language. He explores the paths trodden by humanity's ancestors as they migrated from south eastern Africa to Australia. He intersperses anecdotes from his encounters with memorable outback characters with quotes from his hundreds of notebooks on related topics including enjoyment of walking, nomadic travel, the origin of our species, and human migratory practices and songs.

I've been thinking about the songlines of my own ancestors. My family are newcomers to Australia. Four generations ago we began treading on this land. Before that our footprints mark pathways in England, Scotland and Northern Ireland. Our songs and stories are of challenging journeys by boat, establishing themselves in a new land, and time spent in country Australia as farmers or church ministers. My grandfather used to tell of getting up at dawn to milk cows, and walking barefoot to school, insisting the journey was uphill both ways. Dad has tales of spiders in the outdoor dunny, playing tricks on teachers, and other Tom Sawyer-like adventures in country New South Wales. He  remembers the Aboriginal People living in settlements outside of town in the 1950's, pushed out from what was once their place. It is a reminder that we are literally and metaphorically treading all over other people's songlines.

As I walk the streets of Newtown, my current home, there are more family footprints that were trodden before. My parents owned a house in the next street, and it seemed like we visited almost every  second weekend to do repairs when I was a kid. And my older cousin Ben lived in Newtown up until his death in 2000. While I was too young at the time to understand his illness or have a meaningful relationship with him, I feel strangely connected to him now. I picture him walking the same pathways, perhaps sipping coffee in some of my favourite cafes, and finding inspiration for his art in the interesting characters and colours of the neighbourhood. It's comforting to think that wherever I might go, other people have trodden before, and now it's time for me to mark out my own path, treading lightly so as not to trample upon the ancient songlines, and probably singing my own verses about walking, nomadic travel and migratory practices, as well as continuing the chorus of "I am".

Demystifying the mystics

It's 6am and I can hear two older Quakers speaking earnestly about toothpaste. Yep, it's another day of "Yearly Meeting", the name for the annual Australia Quaker Gathering. If you've ever read Roald Dahl's book "The Witches", the first day of Yearly Meeting for me is a bit like the witches' AGM. Quakers from all around Australia begin to arrive and with great delight greet friends from the other side of the country that they haven't seen since last year. While there aren't the wigs, square toes, or an abhorrence towards children, there are some physical features that set Quakers apart from the rest - lots of sensible hair cuts and sensible shoes.

Mealtimes are a good opportunity for inter-generational exchange. The first morning at breakfast I overheard a rather articulate nine year old boy explaining to his grandfather why he should be permitted to walk across campus and across a busy road to reach the children's room rather than taking a lift in his grandfather's car: "Well, grandpa I have been around for 9 years and have never been hit by a car. Yet, it was only yesterday that you got lost driving across campus". Grandpa conceded defeat.

The first day of Yearly Meeting is when we hold "Summer School", a full day workshop where we can explore deep spiritual issues or creative processes. I selected to do a workshop on "Eldering", which is about the spiritual nurture of the local meeting we are part of. Elders in Quakerism are not necessarily older, and in fact the most profound experience for me in that workshop was when the facilitator's daughter, aged 18 months, waddled around the room quietly greeting all of us, pausing for longer with those who she sensed needed more loving attention. There was a wisdom in her that we often overlook in children.

The other days are taken up with meetings for worship and for business, where the Quaker process of discernment and working towards consensus are applied to a range of issues from earthcare concerns in Australia, international aid and development projects, and appropriate resourcing of our children's program. When there isn't unity on an issue, sometimes the Clerk will ask for silence so we can all centre ourselves before considering the issue again. Each person can only speak once, and there is silence between each contribution. As Friends rise to stand and voice their concerns or support, it's possible to see the energy in the room shift as the group comes to a shared understanding of the best way forward. Sometimes the final decision is different to, and in some ways better than, the original proposal.

Taking a break to cycle around Lake Ginnunderra

But it's not all serious stuff. There is always time for hugs, smiles, and more earnest conversations about toothpaste or the time and energy saved drinking tea with cold water. One Young Friend fondly remembers a year when he was invited to spend an entire afternoon learning Tibetan throat singing.

During the week the children have their own sessions, with older Quakers joining them to share stories from their life experience or to hear what the children have been up to. Older Quakers take seriously the care and nurture of their younger counterparts, taking the opportunity when given, to teach experientially about Quaker process. I can remember one year when I was a teenager, it had come to pass that one of the phones in the dormitories had been broken, possibly as a result of enthusiastic over-use. Rather than attribute blame, or swift discipline, our adult carers asked us to sit in a circle and "discuss" the issue of the broken phone and what to do about it. As the sun became stronger and stronger, and our stomachs hungrier, we discussed and discussed without "unity", until finally one of our number stood, and declared that he thought perhaps it was in fact he who had broken the phone after all. We all breathed a sigh of relief, agreed to share the costs of the repair, and finally went to lunch.

Invariably the staff at the university where we are staying are not used to a group with so many vegetarians and people with other dietary requirements, and so soon enough a brash Quaker who needs her energy for the next session will be heard explaining in no uncertain terms to the kitchen staff that salad doesn't cut it - they need to provide protein to the vegetarians! Slowly, under the guidance of more brash Quakers, the quality of the vegetarian meals improves over the course of the week, until we are inundated with beans, eggs and tofu.

The final night of Yearly Meeting is when we hold the concert. Suddenly all semblance of quietness dissipates, and there is poetry, singing, laughter and dance. My favourite act this year was Young Friends' Australian rendition of Jon Watt's slightly irreverent flash mob rap song "Friend speaks my mind", closely followed by the Children's mock news segment and weather report for 2050, highlighting the risks of not acting immediately on climate change.

All too soon, it's time to go home, and I hope yet again that the hugs, smiles and enriching conversations will lovingly sustain and hold me throughout the coming year, enabling me to go about my life with integrity. The challenge for me is to find ways to recreate this same sense of community, love, passion and depth in my everyday life.

New Year's Intentions

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.(Serenity Prayer)

New Years is a good time for being intentional about self-improvement, and to reflect on what we can change and what we can't. A quick google search revealed that the top ten most common New Year's resolutions people tend to make are: get organised, help others, quit smoking, quit drinking, learn a new skill, get fit, lose weight, get out of debt, have more fun and spend more time with family and friends. Many of them remind me of past resolutions well kept and not so well kept. One year I wrote down everything I planned to do before I turned 30 and methodically went about achieving them. Last year I lost ten kilos, went on a yoga retreat by myself, started riding my bike again and completed more postgraduate studies. This year, I thought I would be courageous and share the "adventures" I plan to embark on, and it seems there is something for the mind, body and soul!

Firstly, I plan to be more deliberate about how I nurture my mind. With studies out of the way, I can choose my own sources of mental inspiration. One friend likes to send me links to songs or movies that he thinks I might like. It's nice - gives us something to discuss later, and reminds me that I'd like to do more sharing of inspirational and thought-provoking music, books and movies. So my plan is to join a book-club or movie club so I can get ideas for interesting reads or films and talk about them with others afterwards. Also, I've booked two tickets to see the wise and beautiful Archie Roach in concert!

For my body I've already set myself the physical challenge of walking the Overland Track, a 6 day hike in Tasmania. As with planning for any big adventure, it seems as if the universe is checking how determined I really am to achieve this goal. For example, when planning a one day hike with my mother as part of my training, we were faced with gloomy-looking rain clouds, the fear of mum falling down midway through and me having to somehow carry her out to safety, and the threat of "noticeably steep hills" written into the track notes. We seriously considered giving up and doing a shorter day walk. But we did the hike in the end, and the sound of mum's voice from the kitchen when we had returned saying "what a glorious achievement!" over again reminded me that sometimes it's important to feel the fear and do it anyway.

Nurturing the soul is just as important for me. Many inspirational figures such as Gandhi, Jesus, and the Dalai Lama have talked about times of retreat and stillness that nourish them so that they can go out into the world to be and act. We all need time to reflect, meditate or pray in between times of intense being and doing. So I plan, yet again, to develop some kind of regular spiritual practice, whether it ends up being meditation, yoga, or reading. I might enrol in a Quaker Learning course. Whichever way I go, I have chosen serenity as my aspirational quality for the next few weeks. I plan to get better at accepting the things I can't change in life, and taking more time to smell the flowers.

So, how will I ensure that I keep these resolutions? Perhaps the fulfilment of these goals will be a bit like the sunflower that I photographed in our garden late last year. The first step is to plant the seedling and tell people it's there. Then encourage everyone around to water and nourish the goal, letting the sun shine on it. And hopefully one day it will open into full bloom and sing out to me that with a little courage, serenity and wisdom great things are possible.

Tribute to my grandmother

Mum, me and Grandma at her place

My grandmother Mary and her twin sister Nell were born 92 years ago today. "The same day as Qantas", she often reminded me, a piece of knowledge that recently earned me a point in a trivia game. On their 56th birthday I came along to expand the happy band of scorpios, and we spent the next 17 years arguing over whose birthday we were really celebrating when the family got together.

There were a lot of children in my grandmother's life. She had 5 of her own, she fostered an aboriginal girl when my youngest aunt was still at home, and cared for me two days a week when I was a pre-schooler. I have fond memories of those times. The day would begin with a walk to the park, where we would inevitably run into some neighbour that she knew, pat a dog or two, and she would push me on the swing. Back at the house, together we would carefully spread peanut butter on our sandwiches, cut them into triangles and pack them in a bag. Then we would walk the 100 metres or so to my uncle's caravan that was parked in their backyard, open the door and unpack our lunch on the rickety caravan table and eat it as we stared out the window at the garden. It was the most exciting, picnicy, musty-smelling adventure a 3 year old girl could have. Later on in the day she would read me a story, punctuated by long pauses when Grandma would doze off for "40 winks" or so.

Grandma was generous and kind and everyone who met her loved her. Looking back, she was a very social person, but never a party animal. She was more in the background enabling the interactions to happen and ensuring that everyone was comfortable. Family gatherings were hosted by grandma. Her coleslaw with mandarin was a staple dish, and she would always try to feed our family chicken and hot dogs even though we repeatedly reminded her that we were vegetarian. She never missed the quarterly get-togethers with her cousins and was active in the local church to the extent that the brick-a-brack stall at the annual church flea market is still simply known as "Mary's stall" because she had been such a familiar and consistent sight behind the counter for so many years.

Mary and Nell were very close, as you'd imagine with twins, and they modeled for me how sisters could blend gossip, heated disagreement and business-like arrangements all into the one seamless conversation. I remember the two of them taking my friend Cybele and I for an outing one day. They walked together in front in animated discussion, and the two of us walked behind them having a great time quietly copying them. "No, I insist, Nell, let me pay" was followed by "no, don't be ridiculous, Mary, I insist. It's my shout" and behind we mimed with pronounced hand gestures. Then as the conversation shifted from which train to catch to stories of husbands and children, the banter seemed to turn into an endless cycle of "Oh, I know, I know", and "oh, yeees, I knoooow" and meanwhile in the rear were two girls with our heads bobbing all over the place in delighted and silent exaggeration.

When I was a teenager, I asked her about her relationship with Grandfather, who we all just thought of as an eccentric old man who worked a lot with clocks and trains but didn't interact much with people. She told me that "I still learn new things about your grandfather every day" which I found incredible after fifty odd years, although perhaps not that surprising given what could be hidden in that garage of his! Once she confided to me that she occasionally let Grandfather win a game of cards, just to keep it interesting. "Always keep a little bit of money for yourself" she would advise us girls. When I taped an interview with them about life during the war for a school assignment, she explained the simplicity of her wedding dress, and how friends and family had rallied around to add various special touches to it using their food stamps. Then with a sparkle in her eyes she added an anecdote about the honeymoon.  "We were given two single beds on a verandah on our wedding night. Your grandfather was livid!"

I would have loved to ask her advice about many of life's more tricky matters over the past almost twenty years, and relate to her as an adult, but she died just after I turned 17. I miss her all the time, but she might be happy to hear that many of her qualities live on in those she influenced. Her determination to learn to drive later in life, her courage to face terminal illness with grace, her patience with and kindness towards children, her intellect and quick wit, her love of people and her compassion for those less fortunate. It's a challenge I give myself every day to be a bit more like her. Happy Birthday Grandma.

Black dogs and bath mats

Some people are visited by the black dog. Others talk of feeling "low". The early Quaker George Fox wrote about an ocean of darkness. Whatever the euphemism, let's face it. We're talking about the good old elephant in the room - depression.

Most people have experienced some low points in life. For some, they are triggers for episodes of depression. Many sortof carry on as best they can, managing to maintain the illusion of normality, and eventually come out the other side. Others who can't are made to feel inadequate or even guilty because it's not possibly to snap out of it or even conceive of a life beyond the blackness.

A few years ago a friend who knew from experience lent me a book called "Taming the Black Dog". It's a comic book designed for people suffering from depression or anxiety and those close to them. It describes the negative thoughts that tend to take over, and how they become a cycle whereby more negative things tend to happen as a result of the negative thinking patterns.

I like the black dog analogy. My mum was telling me once about a black dog (an actual dog that happened to be black) that she was looking after. This black dog would follow her around wherever she went. There was an element of comfort to it being there, but sometimes its presence got annoying and restricted what she could do. A defining moment was when she stepped out of the shower, and there was the black dog, sitting on the bathmat, and there was no room left for her feet.

The metaphorical black dog can be a bit the same. There's a comfort in the familiarity of the negative thoughts following you around and the fact that they give you an excuse for inaction and cowardly decisions. But sometimes you have a moment where you open the shower door and realise that the black dog sitting on the bath mat leaving no room for your feet is no longer helpful. You can't just get rid of it, but you can tame that dog.

The book my friend lent me offers tools for "taming" the black dog and suggestions for showing support for somebody caught in the fog of depression. It doesn't attribute blame or suggest unrealistic goals. It just offers a few steps for thinking differently, acting differently and for celebrating even the smallest indicators of progress. While I can't bring back the people in my life who eventually succumbed to the illness, I can try to be a supportive presence for others, and hopefully live my own life as a confident dog tamer rather than a wet bathmat when times get tough.

Where have all the feminists gone?

In the good old days of pretty party dresses!

I wouldn't call myself a trend setter. Far from it. It was at a birthday party aged about ten when this fact was made startlingly clear to me. I arrived at the party attired in what was an appropriate "party outfit" the last time I checked - a cute yellow dress with frills. But to my horror I encountered a room full of girls wearing jeans! It was as if I had missed the memo advising us that the trend had changed. We had reached the next stage of life and it wasn't pretty dresses any more, it was jeans.

I've noticed a similar change of trend recently with regards to feminism. Back in high school I think we had starry eyed notions of being super-women when we grew up. Surely we could have fulfilling careers, find Mr Right AND raise well-adjusted children - it was the 1990's after all. So much had changed since our mothers' and grandmothers' generations. Girls were doing better in high school than boys, there were women in parliament, and running their own businesses. And it was the era of sensitive new aged guys (SNAGs). The future looked bright.

During our twenties most of my friends focused on their careers and did very well. Many of the girls from my high school were already high flying doctors, lawyers, academics, journalists and politicians by the time the ten year reunion came around. But in the second decade since high school things have changed somewhat. We've entered the next phase, and I have watched as my peers take their husbands' surnames, trade in their careers for more time with little ones, and - let's face it - do most of the housework. The doctors are choosing family friendly specialties, the lawyers with children get overlooked for promotion, the academics are working crazy hours, and some have left their chosen career altogether to focus on family, starting on the bottom rung of the ladder in a new profession a few years later. Others don't have children at all, which is another form of compromise whether by choice or circumstance. All the women in my age group seem to be compromising one way or another.


So, where am I in all this? I now have a really fulfilling job that I would describe as a vocation as well as paid employment. I resent the sense of judgement I sometimes feel towards me that I must be selfish because I don't have children. I still get angry about men who don't do their share of housework and the way Australians pick on their female Prime Minister in ways they would never do if she was a man. Basically, I'm still a feminist, but I've turned up at the party and guess what? I'm told it's not about being an angry feminist anymore, it's more about "compromise" and "being realistic".

So, it appears that I'm still wearing jeans, having missed the memo telling me it's back to dresses! So, what am I to do? I don't want to be critical of the women in my life who have made difficult choices and compromises or of the many men who have gone out on a limb to challenge the old ways and carve out new models of parenting and role sharing. I just hope that the young men and women they raise have an appreciation for what their mothers, fathers and grandmothers have achieved in the name of feminism, a recognition that we are by no means "there" yet, and a determination to continue the work for greater equity when they grow up and are faced with the same challenges and tough choices.

To walk home alone at night

The rape and murder of ABC Journalist Jill Meagher has resurfaced old feelings of anger and frustration in me about violence against women.

Many of the news articles about the incident mention that she walked home alone. There's an implied sense of blame there, and a warning to other women. So often it is suggested that the best way to avoid rape and other acts of violence is for women to take precautions; learn self defense, dress sensibly, and of course -  avoid walking home alone at night.

And now we hear that the greatest danger is not actually from strangers in the street, but from people we already know. So, again, women are advised to avoid friendly banter in the workplace, dress sensibly on dates, and try not to antagonise our fathers and husbands at home.

I would not call myself a high risk taker. Yet, if I took all the precautions suggested by those who believe it's women who have to change their behaviour, I would not be walking down the main street of Honiara even in the middle of the day, I would go back to wearing clothes that are drab and grey, I would only interact socially with women, family get togethers would be out of the question, and I would have to ask a friend to walk me home every single night that I'm returning after dark. Of course, it gets really complicated, because if I'm avoiding contact with men, who is going to walk me home?

But I'm sure we all agree that women are not actually the problem and we are entitled to live rich and fulfilling lives free of fear, just as men are. I like the poster above (from lipstick feminists) because it changes the dynamic of the debate. You realise that the advice is for men rather than women, for offenders rather than victims. Instead of  spending so much energy advising young women how to be afraid, we should be advising young men how to be respectful.

So, I'll be at the Reclaim the Night rally this year (28th October) with bell's on. I think we should reclaim the night, and the day and the workplace and the home. Who will join me?

The gender mind bender

Last week the Solomon Islands Province of Malaita elected a woman into the National Parliament. She's the second woman ever in the country to be elected nationally. Now, the interesting thing about this is that Malaita is one of the patrilineal provinces (meaning that when a couple marries it is the woman who moves to the man's place) and has a reputation for being very strong in Kastom (custom) and quite patriarchal in thinking. Other provinces like Isabel and Makira are matrilineal.

So, on the one hand, people are a little surprised that Malaita should lead the way on female representation in parliament. On the other, there is talk of Vika Lusibaea only being elected because of her husband, who was very popular in the region but banned from politics due to his involvement in war crimes. She promised to continue her husband's agenda. I heard that some felt that since democratic elections are a western imposition and not Kastom, so why not go the whole hog and elect a woman!

As these issues play out on the national stage, we grapple with gender and power dynamics at the village and organisational levels. One of the challenges of the project I am involved in is to promote gender equity in the communities that we work with. For us, it also means thinking about enabling real participation of women in decision making, and making spaces for people to talk about gender roles and how men and women are sharing workloads and decision making power in the home and modelling both male and female leadership at the organisational level. It's also about taking a tough stand on gender based violence.

However, I am finding that it's wise not to make assumptions or quick judgements. The only man in Solomon Islands to be considered a gender expert is our beloved Grayham, who comes from Malaita. And it's the men from Makira who are currently not happy with me because I support the appointment of women into positions of leadership. At the same time, I have had more meaningful discussions with men that I work with in Solomon Islands about gender than I ever do in Australia.

Another thing that annoys me in this whole development scene is Australian men coming in and making judgements about "gender issues" in Solomons without looking at the plank in their own eye. While more than a third of Australian women have experienced domestic violence and men still make up the majority of CEOs in our sector, I think we should be very careful about getting on our high horses and demanding  miraculous changes in behaviour and attitude overnight in places like Solomon Islands when it's taken 60 years to see any meaningful progress in Australia.

However, I believe that change is possible. As we've seen from this recent election, and from changes in livestyle, dress and eating habits, people all over the world can and do adapt to changing circumstances in both positive and negative ways. We just need to encourage healthy changes, and support people who are at the forefront of challenging less helpful beliefs and practices. So, as Malaita heralds a new era of politics in Solomon Islands, let's wait and see - maybe other positive changes will follow.

Out of Honiara

8 seater plane to Marau Sound, Guady

Getting to most of the community learning centres that we work with in Solomon Islands is no easy feat. A typical journey to the provinces can involve a small 8 passenger plane, followed by an 8 seater boat with an outboard motor (referred to as OBM), followed by dug out canoe, wading through raging rapids or a hike into the jungle. In most of these scenarios it's better to pack light.

There is something very homely about boarding a small plane and being able to see the pilot and all the controls. It's "a more personal experience" when the pilot climbs aboard, checks the doors are shut properly, gives the safety demonstration, and comments on the weather and expected flight time before settling into his seat and starting the engine. Flights depart for most provincial capitals 3 times a week, and the arrival of the flight from Honiara is a community event, with people turning up to watch the landing, even if they don't have family members arriving or departing.

When you disembark, you find yourself in the middle of a large field, with a few people gathered around, and most likely no airport as such. It's important to be met at the airport, as getting from the airport to the port can often be an adventure in itself. At Kira Kira airport in Makira Province you have to either squeeze on to the back of a large communal truck, or organise a truck of your own, because the port is quite a distance away. Luckily you won't get bored waiting for your truck, because one of the locals makes it his business to greet every flight coming in, chatting away to passengers in sign language, and offering to carry bags for a small fee.

Once you're at the port, then it's a matter of organising a boat and securing enough fuel to last you for the return trip to wherever you're going. Given that fuel usage depends on how angry the sea is that day, the fuel discussion is always a lengthy one. Then it's time to board. One boat ride in Makira was so rough, I truly believed I would die. Rain was pounding our faces, while the boat rocked from side to side and waves crashed against the side of the boat. The captain and crew were excitedly shouting directives to one another and I expressed some concern. "Oh, don't worry", they assured me. "If we were really in danger, we wouldn't be talking at all". OK. My petite colleague told me that she once found herself literally flying from one end of the boat to the other in the bad weather. I was secretly glad to be on the heavier side of average in this case!

Dug out canoe for crossing difficult channel, Makira Province

When your boat approaches the shore, however, the journey is still not complete. To reach some villages requires a 30 minute hike inland, while others are closer to the shore. One village I stayed at was spread across both sides of a raging river, and the only way to get to my accommodation was to wade across the river. After much discussion, it was decided that I needed the assistance of a very skinny pre-teen boy. Another time, I was assisted across a river by a dug-out canoe, expertly steered by another very young man. My colleagues told me that I couldn't be trusted to sit in the canoe without capsizing it AND be responsible for my own bag, so my bag was taken across separately.

Normally arrival of newcomers at a village is heralded by calls on a shell or pipe, and then warriers turn up pretending to attack you while the other villagers gather about and help secure the boat or say hello. Garlands of flowers and speeches often follow. Normally I am drenched from head to toe, busting to "pay a short kastom visit" and a bit wobbly on foot during these prestigious welcomes, but always glad to have arrived safe and sound. I try not to think right away about the return journey.

Time to toughen up

Honiara is not the worst place in the world to be. But it can be tough. In the course of one day I managed to get groped in the middle of town in broad daylight by one young man, another threw his melon peel in the direction of my crotch in an intentional way, and in the evening I was harassed by two drunk men, each apologising for the behaviour of the other. And that wasn’t even the day I got pickpocketed. It’s become a challenge to get through a day in town without such eventualities. 

However, it’s not only in Honiara that you can be surprised and scared. Within days of the pickpocket experience, I was off on my first site visit to a village half an hour’s hike in from the beach in East Guadalcanal. The walk itself was not overly demanding, but nevertheless, I was looking forward to arriving at the village. Suddenly, out of the bushes came a group of warriors dressed in the traditional dress of leaves, and surrounded me. One grabbed his hands around my neck and held on firmly. Others were shouting and seemed very angry. Suddenly my colleague was nowhere to be seen. I began to panic and fear the worst – that I was under attack. Then, as suddenly as it began, my neck was released, and everyone started shaking hands and ushering me into a clearing where the whole community had gathered for a welcome ceremony. I have to admit that there were tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat from the surprise of it all. When my colleague re-appeared, and I told him in a wavering voice that it might have been nice to have been warned about this little welcome ceremony, he simply shrugged and bemoaned the fact that he had been unable to get a satisfactory photograph of the event. I guess I just have to toughen up and get used to it all.